by Rachel Hauck
Mom arched her brow and nudged Bruno. “She turned out well.”
Pastor Oliver walked the warehouse-sanctuary with a microphone in hand as a dozen hands shot up, volunteering to share.
“Trilby, I know you have a testimony.” He passed off the mike to Trilby Thomas.
“I’ll try to make it short.” She wiped under her eyes. “My husband and I had been married about ten years and found ourselves fighting over everything. I thought divorce would be our end. After one particularly bad night, I got in my car to drive. Just drive. But I didn’t go two miles before I found myself at the old memory house. Miss Everleigh’s. It was raining cats and dogs, but she must have seen my headlights because here she came running with an umbrella and invited me in for tea. It was as if she knew I was coming. She listened to my sob story, then she prayed for me and sent me home. She told me, ‘Find wherever you stashed your big-girl pants and put them on. You’re not a school girl. You’re a woman. Act like it. Work this out, and stop being so selfish.’” Laughter rippled among the many bobbing heads. “I see I’m not alone in that advice. Well, I went home and we worked it out. I’ll always be grateful to her for her advice, her strength, and her prayers.”
Trilby sat to a light applause, and the mike moved to Scott Harrell. Bruno checked on Beck. She remained just outside the door.
Next thing he knew, Pastor Oliver stood next to him. “Bruno Endicott, why don’t you share? Miss Everleigh was your neighbor and adopted grandmother.”
Mom pushed him to his feet as the good preacher shoved the microphone into his hands.
“Well . . . ,” he said, facing the at-capacity room. “Like Pastor Oliver said, she was our neighbor and my adopted grandma.” He peeked toward Beck. Nothing about her composure had softened or reflected any sentiment for the women they honored. “I spent a lot of time at her house while Mom worked. Um . . .” He inhaled, gathering his emotions, trying to find a memory that would make them laugh instead of cry. But all he saw was Miss Everleigh’s sweet, lined face. “She was safe, warm, and compassionate. Made the best chocolate-chip cookies in town.” Nods and agreement bounced around. “One year Beck Holiday and I—” He pointed to the door. Heads turned. “We ate about five boxes of Popsicles to get enough sticks for backyard Bible school.” He teared up, laughing softly at the memory. “Miss Everleigh talked about Jesus like He was real. Alive.” He couldn’t control the warble in his voice. “I was fifteen when my dad died, and I exploded out of our house, angry and lost. I don’t know how it happened, but suddenly she was there”—he glanced at Trilby—“like she knew. I put my head on her shoulder and sobbed. Snot sobbed. She told me Jesus loved me and that I had a Father in heaven. I’ll never forget the way her arms felt around me and the peace she exuded.” The memory surprised him. He’d not talked about that day in seventeen years. “Mom and I never knew much about Miss Everleigh’s life before she moved to Fernandina Beach, but she must’ve gone through something intense to carry such peace and empathy. I hope to live in a way that would make her proud.”
He passed the mike back to Pastor Oliver, convicted by his own confession. Live in a way . . . Really? When? Because if he was honest, he had no plan to start living for others above himself.
Pastor cleared his throat and patted Bruno’s shoulder. Well done.
“Miss Ilene, I know you have a story . . .”
As he sat, a slow trickle traced down his cheek and Mom squeezed his hand.
After a few more testimonies, the song leader returned to the stage and invited everyone to stand and sing.
“You’re a good, good Father.”
Closing his eyes, Bruno raised his voice. This was a confession he needed. A truth he must embrace. God was a good Father.
As the last note rang out, he checked for Beck, but she was gone. He resisted the urge to run for the door and scan the street for her.
Whatever happened after Dale died must’ve been horrendous. The hard glint in her eye told the story.
But surely beneath the toughness was the remains of a bright-eyed, freckle-faced girl who ran through the sun and waves with abandon. The girl he taught to surf. The girl who shared his first kiss under twinkle lights at the music festival. The girl who made him laugh just because.
Would he see her again? Perhaps too much time had passed. It happened. People changed, drifted. Bruno wasn’t sure Beck Holiday was anything like the girl he’d once loved. He glanced again at the door, then toward the fading blaze of the orange-and-red sunset.
She’d been gone a long time. Maybe it was good she didn’t remember him. Whatever childhood dreams he had of Beck Holiday were a thing of the past. Better to leave them be, alone and undisturbed.
chapter eight
Everleigh
As quickly as it began, it ended. The cellar door ceased rattling, and a sliver of white light slipped between concrete and metal.
The puppies squirmed from her lap, yipping, tussling with one another. It was over. Yip, yip!
But Everleigh could not move. Huddled into herself, she pressed her back against the hard, unrelenting cellar wall and waited, shivering, not bothering to dry her tears.
Rocco hopped over and sniffed her hand before trying to climb into her lap. She cradled him close and held on tight, too tight. He squirmed and nipped at her hand, so she let him go.
Get up, Everleigh.
But her arms, her legs, her very being remained pinned to the wall. Rhett would come soon. Then she’d move, fall into his arms, and know everything was all right.
A twister! She’d lived through a twister.
The moments collected into hours. The whitish-blue light falling through the cellar faded to a pale gray. The puppies sniffed about, playing, until they settled into a pile and fell asleep.
Time ticked on as she waited, frozen, her stomach rumbling, her legs aching.
Rhett will come.
He was probably in town, helping with the aftermath. The Applegates were good that way, always extending a helping hand to anyone in need.
At last sleep came to claim her and she surrendered.
“Everleigh!”
She jolted upright, fumbling with the flashlight, tossing off the blanket. “I’m down here! Rhett? Darling, I knew you’d come.”
The hinges moaned and a bold white beam flooded the cellar.
“Everleigh?” Duke Cartwright, owner of the DC Ranch southwest of the Circle A, descended the steps. “We’ve been looking all over for you. Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” Her voice wavered as she stood, her leg tingling from being curled under her for so long. “I decided to stay here until Rhett came. Is he up top?” She peered up, through the cellar opening, to the stars scattered across the night sky.
“Why don’t we get you and these here pups up out of this hole. Y’all must be starving.”
“As a matter of fact . . .” Everleigh climbed out with Rocco and the big pup while Duke carried the other two.
They emerged into darkness under a full complement of stars and a white, glowing moon. How was it possible only a few hours ago terror twisted over her?
On the ground, however, Everleigh’s landscape was black and eerie, save the headlamps shining from Mr. Cartwright’s trucks and those coming up the driveway.
“Lea, darling, can you get these poor things some food and water?” Mr. Cartwright passed the dogs to his wife. “Everleigh, we brought sandwiches and a cold jug of fresh milk.” He escorted her toward his truck.
“How’d your place do, Mr. Cartwright? The rain was so thick I didn’t see it was a twister until it was nearly too late. There was nothing on the radio but static.”
“It was a twister, all right. An F5. Three quarters of a mile wide. Cut right through town before heading up this way. A granddaddy of a storm. Never seen one like it in these parts. The whole town’s—”
“Duke, let the girl eat.” Mrs. Cartwright wrapped a blanket over Everleigh’s shoulders while her daughter handed over a sa
ndwich wrapped in waxed paper.
“W-what happened to the town, Mr. Cartwright?” Everleigh said, but her eyes were on the truck pulling alongside her.
“Rhett!” She tossed her sandwich aside and ran straight into Mr. Cartwright’s arms.
“Do you know what time it is, Everleigh?”
She squinted up at the moon. “Eight? Nine o’clock?”
“It’s two a.m.”
“What? No. I couldn’t have been in that cellar ten hours.” She whirled around at the sound of a clapping door, straining against the rancher’s hold. “Rhett?”
“I need you to take a deep breath and look around, Everleigh.” He swept his flashlight across the terrain—the vacant, barren terrain.
She turned a slow circle. “Where’s the house, Mr. Cartwright? And the barn?”
“Gone.”
Everleigh jerked away from him. “No, the house is-is-is . . .” She shielded her eyes against the blaze of truck lights. “Is right here.” She ran to the cellar to get her bearings. All that remained of the Applegate home was the foundation. “Mr. Cartwright, where’s Rhett? Where are my in-laws?”
“They’re coming in that truck there.” He pointed to the last truck as it left the gravel driveway and cut across Daddy Applegate’s lawn. “I hate to ask you, but we need to know what you want to do.”
“What I want to do? About what?” In her heart, she knew. But her head refused to accept what was coming. Her eyes filled as the driver parked Rhett’s truck, a huge dent in the hood, next to her. “No—” She broke, covering her lips with her hand, and collapsed into Mrs. Cartwright’s strong embrace.
It couldn’t be. No. Simply no! They were building a house. She carried his baby!
“The bodies, Everleigh. We thought you’d want to see them before calling the funeral home. I hope we were right. We got Spike, Heidi, and Rhett in the back. I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”
“No!” She collapsed through Mrs. Cartwright’s arms onto the wet, tough Texas grass, a soft, gentle breeze whispering over her.
* * *
Beck
“Sign here and here.” Miss Everleigh’s lawyer, Joshua Christian, passed Beck a gold pen.
Cradling Beetle Boo in her lap, she accepted the house and the massive property that went to the end of the lane, Miss Everleigh’s accounts, the ancient car in the garage-barn-looking building out back, and the rest of her worldly possessions.
“Mr. Christian, do you know? Why me?” Beck handed him the pen.
“Because she said so. She had a lot of affection for you, for your family, and she understood the loss of your father was devastating.”
“See there, how did she know? My mother said they exchanged Christmas cards for a few years, then nothing. Mom hadn’t heard from her in ten years.”
The man with the bright aura smiled, collecting the papers. “Miss Everleigh had a good memory and a big heart.”
“I don’t remember her.” Beck set Beetle on the floor, but he whined to be picked up again. She had carried him on the flight from New York, a journey he did not appreciate, and since then he’d barely let her out of his sight.
“Yes, I know.”
“Again, how do you know?”
“You’ll remember in time.” He took another set of papers from his attaché. “You don’t have to question everything, Beck. Just enjoy this gift. Now, there’s about a hundred thousand dollars in her money market. The stocks and bonds listed here. Her husband, Don, bought in to the tech world early on and did quite well. Everleigh designated some of the bigger stocks and some cash to her nieces and nephews, but the rest she left for you. Here’s the monthly draw from her annuity. About seven thousand.”
“Excuse me?” She snatched up the account printout. “Seven thousand a month?”
Mr. Christian, the most peaceful, unassuming man Beck had ever met, confirmed the amount even though Beck could read it with her own eyes.
“How do I have a right to any of her money? This is nuts.”
Mr. Christian pointed to a note on the bottom of the legal papers. “Go to this bank. Ask for Rebekah. She’ll give you the cards to sign. And here.” He flipped the page. “Sign here, and I’ll get these sent off to the investment firm.”
She peered at him, his posture a blend of old Southern lawyer and a savvy New Yorker. He wore a simple blue suit with a crisp white shirt and a red tie. Silver threads laced his otherwise reddish-brown hair, and his eyes were the most brilliant blend of green and gold.
But it was his presence that both drew her in and confounded her. He was a force under his gentle demeanor, an otherworldly power that filled the room and almost consumed her.
“Who leaves a stranger her fortune? The remains of her life?”
“But you’re not a stranger to her. See the world through her lens.”
“I haven’t been in Florida or talked to Everleigh in eighteen years.”
“Yes, well, that was unfortunate. You might enjoy this more if you remembered her.”
She glared at him. “How did you know I don’t remember her?”
His smile pierced her, weakening her barriers. “I’m a lawyer. It’s my job to know. Now, be a wise woman and accept this gift. Can you do that? With some modicum of grace?” He collected his copies of the papers along with his fancy gold pen.
She felt properly rebuked yet, strangely, loved. “It’s just a little overwhelming.” The woman’s gesture humbled her. Broke down her lie that the world was a hard, selfish place of loss and pain.
“You know, there’s a story,” he said, pausing by the ornate, polished front door. “About a man who died living under a bridge. When the investigators came along, they learned he had a million dollars in his bank account. Why, they wondered, would he live like a homeless pauper under a bridge when he had such wealth in the bank?”
“Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe he wanted to give the money away. Or live without the constraints of wealth.”
“Those seem like the obvious answers. But in the end, they learned he was prideful and refused to accept a gift. Don’t make the same mistake, Beck.”
Their gazes crossed, locked, and the lawyer’s words sank into her. “I-I won’t.” She stopped him just as he stepped onto the veranda. “Wait, Mr. Christian, can I sell it? The house?”
“Why would you want to?”
“Because,” she scoffed. “I have a job and a life in New York.”
“Do you?”
After he’d gone, the man’s presence, his je ne sais quoi, lingered, and his simple, two-word question nagged her. Did she have a life in New York? Was the job still her passion?
Yes, of course. Once a cop always a cop. What else was she going to do with her life? Until this strange inheritance, it was her only connection to her father.
But things were changing. She was having a baby. And no matter what she decided—to raise the baby herself or put her up for adoption—she would never be the same.
Her life needed assessing, and it’d been a long time coming.
Closing the door, Beck reached down for Beetle, who heeled after her. “Well, what do you want to do now?”
With the dog in her arms, she explored the house. It was beautiful. Nothing like the haunted, broken-down shack she imagined.
The sun fell through the windows and bounced off the hardwoods with a warm reddish hue.
A broad staircase split the foyer in two. On one side was a bedroom with a private bath. On the other side was the large formal living room with an antique breakfront and upholstered furniture.
Through the living room, Beck came to the kitchen with a high-tray ceiling and a ginormous butler’s pantry. She wasn’t a decorator, but the kitchen looked recently updated with marble counters and white cabinets.
The back door led to the veranda and a massive backyard with the garage-barn building.
Beck opened the fridge. Empty. She’d have to find a way to shop. Maybe take an Uber, or see which grocery stores delivered.
&
nbsp; Back through the living room, she climbed the stairs, finding an angled wall and a window seat overlooking the backyard on the second-floor landing.
There were three bedrooms on this level, plainly furnished, looking as if they hadn’t been used in years, and an entryway into another living-room-slash-library.
The eastern wall—four window panes above a bench seat—faced Memory Lane. The opposite wall was a bookshelf. Overhead, the coffered ceiling was framed with gold crown molding. It was both elegant and ostentatious.
The room had two doors. One from the main hall and another to a small alcove leading to a very private, large master bedroom.
Beck walked through, taking it all in again in the light of day, a slight sensation flipping through her.
This is mine?
The master was part of the exterior turret and had lots of windows framed with lacy white curtains. No matter how she tried to position herself in the house, she couldn’t hide from the light.
There was a large empty closet constructed of cedar shiplap. Mr. Christian must have done something with Everleigh’s clothes.
Beck ran her fingers over the dark cedar, inhaling the fragrance. A hazy memory tried to surface. Had she been in this room? Hiding?
She left the door open as she exited and inspected the bathroom. Very nice. Also recently updated. Everleigh had exquisite taste, especially with the throwback claw-foot tub.
The house was really spectacular. She could sell it, rent it out, turn it into a B&B. Beck shivered. A B&B sounded so eighties.
Out of the room, she paused to examine the wainscoting of dark panel under a white wall. To her right was a set of narrow stairs going up to a third floor.
She was about to go up when the doorbell chimed through the upstairs. Leaning over the railing, she called down, her cop instincts kicking in.
“Hello?” She glanced around for a weapon. Man, she felt naked without her Glock.
She picked up a pillow from the window seat, then tossed it back. Maybe there was a cane in the master closet. No, it was void of any long, sturdy sticks.